


The musings of a delirious man.

by opkil



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2018-02-10 22:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2042823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opkil/pseuds/opkil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a randomass collection of stories. :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cherub

**Author's Note:**

> This is a series of stuff that I had my good friend Wisefool challenge me to write.

_so I'm just going to preface this with the challenge for this one._   


_Wisefool's challenge: Write something with this.  
So, let's get moving~_

**Cherub**

The park was close to silent today. Quiet and enclosed. Not many people ventured far into the park to this particular garden, and she was happy for that. Apart from a few pigeons and the light splish-splash of the fountain, Edna sat down and enjoyed the peace and tranquility of her very own 'secret garden'. She had a book open-"It Begins with an End". She enjoyed the book, and she felt her eyes well up when the main character was going through a breakdown.

 

She only understood the feeling of a breakdown too well. She started to feel more tears fall onto the pages of the book. She chuckled to no one in particular, she felt silly crying over a fictional character.

 

Edna set the book down, fishing in her handbag for her handkerchief. She leaned back and wiped her tears on the cloth. She took a sip from her flask.

 

She appreciated the ambience-it was filled with a wonderful energy. The beautifully ornate fountain simply drew your attention to it. Then her eyes fell to the winged cherub statues. Just the sight of the statues made her skin crawl. She had never truly appreciated statues as art, ever since she caught a 'Doctor Who' episode with her parents as a young child.

 

The 'Weeping Angel' statues were statues that moved whenever eyes were taken off them. Edna had remembered the visceral manner of how they dispatched of their prey. When eyes were taken off the statue, they zoomed and grabbed a-hold of one of the main characters wrists before they managed to see them again. Due to the rock hard grip of the Angel, the character had to break her wrist to get out of the grip.

 

Just remembering that episode made her skin crawl, not because of the fear, but because she still felt fear. Fear that she thought she had dispelled so long ago.

 

It was a phobia she thought she had overcome with Phillip.

 

Her mind went to a memory.

__

"Eddie, love. The statues won't harm you, silly!" said Phillip. They were at a Madame Tussauds, and she was running through the exhibits faster than anything. Phillip chased after her. 

"I can't! I CAN'T, PHIL." 

The pair had reached the end of the gallery. Eddie had collapsed at a wall. She leaned against the wall, and hugged her knees. Sobbing and truly in a panic. Phillip hugged her tightly.

__

Edna stepped off the bench,

"Phil isn't here anymore," she said to herself. 

She walked slowly to the fountain, until she reached the edge of the water. She closed her eyes.

She stretched her arm out, and touched the cherub statue. She flinched, as if the statue were ice. She made eye contact with the angel, spitting water from its mouth.

The angel grabbed her hand.


	2. Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not what she didn't do. It was what she did that defined her.

_2nd Day: The Word 'Hero' must be used as a focal point._

**Hero.**

_Final Draft_

Good evening ladies and gentlemen,

Thank you for taking the time out of your saturday evenings to join my family here. Auntie Rosalind would have appreciated your company, even when she's in her casket. She would have been happy to see all of you here.

Tonight, I wanted to talk about her. I wanted to tell everyone here why I am proud to have called Rosalind my auntie. Why I have come out of my shell today, just to speak publicly(I'm sure many of you wonder why I'm speaking so confidently right now). 

I would describe her as a person who has a strong character. She was always kind-hearted, never vengeful. She was a woman of love, of compassion, and most importantly of happiness. When the house was in its darkest hours, Aunt Rosalind would come into the house with chocolate for the children and whiskey for the adults.

Most importantly, however--Aunt Rosalind was a person who exhibited an amazing sense of courage, even in the worst of days. My cousin Wyatt, her only son and child, had left us to fight in Desert Storm. 3 months into his campaign, we were visited by a representative of the Marines, who broke the news of his death. I was with her that day, and she was unflinching even when the Marine was relating the story of how Wyatt died.

He took a bullet as he covered his squad-mates. One of them was in critical condition from a grenade blast too close. If the evacuation was a second too late, he would have lost more than just a finger.

Throughout the funeral proceedings the whole day, she spoke little. She arranged for the most beautiful flowers of the shop be used for Wyatt's funeral, and that was the single most extravagant thing I've seen her spend on.

The only words I heard her utter the week of the funeral, was when we saw Wyatt in his casket.

"Son, I'm proud."

A month or so after Wyatt's funeral, his squad gave the house a call, asking if it was okay if they visited. She merely nodded to me, and they stopped at the house, all wearing dark clothes. They sat awkwardly in the living room, with Aunt Rosalind. I served drinks up to them, and the room was filled with silence.

Here's the best part to that story-Aunt Rosalind could have given in to anger, and hatred. She could have screamed at them like a madwoman, the Marines would have stayed the whole way. It was clear that they were all wrecked with guilt. Especially the one who was missing 2 fingers.

"Ya'll don't have to feel the way you feel," she said simply, breaking the silence.

"How can we not? We lost Wyatt, and it's our fault."

"Because Wyatt would have done that again if the whole lot of you were there again. He would have still covered you while you made escape. Because Wyatt has done something any son of mine should be proud of."

With that sentence, the group started crying again. Auntie as well, they sobbed and sobbed, and hugged each other.

"If it pleases everyone, I would like to do something in his name."

The group were all enthusiastic. Yes ma'am, anything for you. Yes, we owe you too much.

They went out in one my Uncle's big vans, and they went down to the supermarket to buy about a thousand dollars worth of food, socks and things for the homeless. They went out that very day to give out the groceries and foodstuff, which culminated in a dinner at our place. There was so much joy and happiness that night in shared grief, it was a truly amazing sight to behold.

So why do I share such an anecdote about my cousin Wyatt?

Simply put, Auntie Rosalind could have any time chose to rage, and be angry. I'm certain that nights she was alone with my Uncle, she did. She chose to donate and help the homeless. Even in the darkest hours in her life, she chose to refuse it. She ignored the darkness, and instead focused on her light. She focused on people who surely were going through worse. She channeled her pain into strength

At the end of the day, what would matter about 'courage', is that it isn't doing something because you are entirely unafraid of something. It is doing something when you are terrified of it, yet to go through with it.

If I could describe her in a word, my friends? I would describe her as a "Heroine". Something like in the hero comic books, but much more human.

Remember, if at any time any of you feels angry or as if you've been treated unjustly.

Remember my Aunt Rosalind. Do something even when you're terrified, do something not just because of glory. 

The world is a much darker world with the loss of you, Aunt Rosalind.

Please watch over us crazies, as we try to follow your example.

  
Thank you, everyone.


	3. Ashes

_Day 3: Write something with 'Ash'. A bit behind, so let's go._

**Ashes**

At the end of it all,

That is what we are left with.

Ash.

 

Scattered about.

Memories and thoughts,

Opinions and feelings.

 

We are fed to the pyre.

The perfect fit.

We start with fire, and end by it.

 

 


	4. Plastic

**Plastic**

We're all wearing masks.  
Made of plastic, stiff and inflexible.  
Flawless and beautiful.

Only taking them off,  
Cracking the shell and shedding it,  
With the ones we truly trust.

Maturity is knowing.  
Understanding we DO all wear them.  
Question is how elaborate?


	5. Song

**Song**

Song: Love Mode by Clazziquai Project

First Line: Everybody needs somebody to kiss.

Last Line: Gotta let it go, Gotta let it go.

_(Holy CRAP this is a tough one.)_

"Everybody needs, somebody to kiss.." the singer crooned. Her tones were smooth as silk, and they filled the club with song. She was there with her band, whose members were filled with piercings, each looking more of a safety hazard than the last. (Incidentally, that was what her band was called, 'The Safety Hazards'.)

The club was filled with cigarette smoke and the smell of strong alcohol, intermingled with the scent of an odd lemongrass-like scent, for some reason.

That was when our eyes met from across the dance-floor. What was it about that moment? You smiled widely. Your hair was shoulder length, and seemed frizzy from this distance. Your glasses were cute librarian-like ones, and you had an aura that just attracted me to you.

Perhaps it was the mutual inebriation, combined with my own lofty flights of fantasy about what romance and love was, and how sweet you smelled with your apple-scented perfume. Maybe even, it was just a shared mutual loneliness.

Or by Occam's Razor, we just felt an attraction.

I walked over, and you jumped on me. I didn't resist you. You held onto me tightly, and kissed me forcibly. I didn't resist.

I let you kiss me, and after a while, we continued making out. The singer's voice was the only indication of the time elapsed. She must have sung 2 more songs in that time. I didn't care. You kissed really well.

There was no conversation, just messy kisses and groping. I didn't expect anything more than that.

"Gotta let it go, gotta let it go." The singer belted. Her voice husky and reaching new levels of sex appeal. She looked twice as alluring as she did half a glass ago.

You broke away, as if on cue. You looked at me longingly, and I must have returned the favour. You slipped your name-card into a pocket of my jacket. You explained that you had to leave, like a weird clubbing version of Cinderella.

I never called.

I don't know why I still remember that. Perhaps it was just the allure of youth, combined with spontaneity that sticks in my head. 

I stared at the name-card from all those years ago.

"Faith Tan" 

I stared at it for what must have been an eternity, before finally crushing it.


End file.
